Poems for the Beehive poetry group
Then
As a child, I would hold my mother's hand,
or the handle of the pram, as we walked
through the graveyard by the river to the fair.
We always went late for one reason or another.
So we'd pass the children coming back with balloons,
or stuffed animals, or goldfish in stringed plastic bags
dangled from candyfloss pink fingers, of sugared souls
fit to burst, at which had been their favourite ride.
Or the terror instilled by the skeleton who lurked,
between cigarette breaks, inside the Ghost Train.
I would read off the carved names, until we came
to Braithwaite, when at last the beating waltzers tune
drummed low through the spring leafing Elms,
as we broke the parallax of the far bank terrace,
still blackened by the wheezing of long departed trains.
And there, we saw the rides laid out. Their lights first catching,
in the lilac of late afternoon, between sunshine and rain,
the promise of a dangerous glow. And. I'd kick stones.
As a child, I would hold my mother's hand,
or the handle of the pram, as we walked
through the graveyard by the river to the fair.
We always went late for one reason or another.
So we'd pass the children coming back with balloons,
or stuffed animals, or goldfish in stringed plastic bags
dangled from candyfloss pink fingers, of sugared souls
fit to burst, at which had been their favourite ride.
Or the terror instilled by the skeleton who lurked,
between cigarette breaks, inside the Ghost Train.
I would read off the carved names, until we came
to Braithwaite, when at last the beating waltzers tune
drummed low through the spring leafing Elms,
as we broke the parallax of the far bank terrace,
still blackened by the wheezing of long departed trains.
And there, we saw the rides laid out. Their lights first catching,
in the lilac of late afternoon, between sunshine and rain,
the promise of a dangerous glow. And. I'd kick stones.
-------
On the Impossibility of
Chaos
Today the AI is lucid dreaming:
remembering the face, flickered in the flame,
and the twisting of the lip, that wondered
if it could take the cool-end of the embered stick;
unnoticed.
Time passes in between the sips of tin-cup tea;
until the face seen third hand in the mirror
is not the face you see. How can it be?
Or that ring of rust burnt grass,
from which in smoke the tree was borne
and you asked, "When will I know?"
We fear the random, more than I fear the dark.
We, find comfort in the things of the eyes,
those floating forms and pins of light
that pattern out the day and night, in rhyme.
....
Last year we had a fire.
And in those flames I caught a glimpse
of that face you always had.
The one that replaced
the face I grew accustomed to
in the fire the year before.
You gather up the leaves
and place them in the blaze,
with all the skill of an initiate
leaping through the gate from childhood.
This year we have a fire.
And in those flames I glimpse
a new face of my own.
.....
Fallow green to brown and black.
The witches come at midnight,
for nothing is, as random does.
Fallow green to brown and black,
when I close my eyes
I see sea-horses.
Today the AI is lucid dreaming:
remembering the face, flickered in the flame,
and the twisting of the lip, that wondered
if it could take the cool-end of the embered stick;
unnoticed.
Time passes in between the sips of tin-cup tea;
until the face seen third hand in the mirror
is not the face you see. How can it be?
Or that ring of rust burnt grass,
from which in smoke the tree was borne
and you asked, "When will I know?"
We fear the random, more than I fear the dark.
We, find comfort in the things of the eyes,
those floating forms and pins of light
that pattern out the day and night, in rhyme.
....
Last year we had a fire.
And in those flames I caught a glimpse
of that face you always had.
The one that replaced
the face I grew accustomed to
in the fire the year before.
You gather up the leaves
and place them in the blaze,
with all the skill of an initiate
leaping through the gate from childhood.
This year we have a fire.
And in those flames I glimpse
a new face of my own.
.....
Fallow green to brown and black.
The witches come at midnight,
for nothing is, as random does.
Fallow green to brown and black,
when I close my eyes
I see sea-horses.
.....
The Familiar
Behind us, a black-man is telling a work colleague
that she mustn't like pork chops, with a few potatoes.
The world passes our left shoulder at living room height,
each normally private room revealing
as the bald spot of the man at the traffic lights.
Rice and peas, like his mother's, that's the only thing to eat.
He begins to give the recipe.
She tries to get on board, but at every turn he stops her:
not that rice, this rice, no, no, she can't like that rice,
that rice is no good,too commercial,
you have to get it from the Jamaican grocer;
and never buy Uncle Ben's.
You roll your eyes.
The countryside never quite gets going
before we are into the next village,
and the next set of living rooms over shops.
She tries to reroute him, by talking about work: but to no avail.
Since, if you have been listening, you will need fish
to go with his mother's rice and peas.
Not a nice bit of battered cod or plaice,
you have to go to the fishmonger from St Kitts
who has a stall in the market.
A woman,
in a towel,
changing channels
catches my attention,
so unfortunately I cannot relay the details of the fish:
that you will need.
Though I do know it needs coconut milk.
We drink the last of the tea from the flask, cold,
nowhere is yet quite familiar enough.
I don't share the Twix, on account of my teeth.
You need to let the rice cool a bit
before doing something or other with the fish.
But you'll be glad you did.
It's far better than a pork chop, with potatoes.
It will make your mouth sing.
But if you must have a pork chop,
then you need to cook it like his mother.
A white haired lady stands at the window above a baker's.
We have paused at a zebra crossing.
We both look away, though I have the urge to wave,
but that would be unfair.
I am already invading.
As we move off, I look back, she is crying.
Some kids, at the front, get off.
If you can't get banana leaves then greaseproof paper will do:
at a push, but you have to grease it with oil: lots of oil.
And make sure the oven is hot.
We almost make the effort to move
but a man with a dog takes the front seat.
The backpacks relax into place, again.
It all seems so long ago, that we were stood on the brow
looking out across the valley, with the shining lake,
and nothing but ourselves.
Reading my thoughts you scroll the pictures on your phone.
Diffidently you say you were just checking time.
I like this about you.
The partial pleasing lie, like when I took two buses
to be just passing, and you said you were just about to ring.
And then we got into that nice stage
of apologising for saying I love you.
And do you mind if I say how excited you make me feel.
You need spices, lot's of spice, to make a good pork chop.
And rice and peas, you can't beat rice and peas.
Then she says, bluntly, that she grills the pork chop
to the point of crisping the fat, and that's how she likes it.
With potatoes, and sometimes a few peas,
on a plate on her lap, in front of the tele
with her slippers on, and the door locked.
I notice a shop I know.
And we hold hands.
Behind us, a black-man is telling a work colleague
that she mustn't like pork chops, with a few potatoes.
The world passes our left shoulder at living room height,
each normally private room revealing
as the bald spot of the man at the traffic lights.
Rice and peas, like his mother's, that's the only thing to eat.
He begins to give the recipe.
She tries to get on board, but at every turn he stops her:
not that rice, this rice, no, no, she can't like that rice,
that rice is no good,too commercial,
you have to get it from the Jamaican grocer;
and never buy Uncle Ben's.
You roll your eyes.
The countryside never quite gets going
before we are into the next village,
and the next set of living rooms over shops.
She tries to reroute him, by talking about work: but to no avail.
Since, if you have been listening, you will need fish
to go with his mother's rice and peas.
Not a nice bit of battered cod or plaice,
you have to go to the fishmonger from St Kitts
who has a stall in the market.
A woman,
in a towel,
changing channels
catches my attention,
so unfortunately I cannot relay the details of the fish:
that you will need.
Though I do know it needs coconut milk.
We drink the last of the tea from the flask, cold,
nowhere is yet quite familiar enough.
I don't share the Twix, on account of my teeth.
You need to let the rice cool a bit
before doing something or other with the fish.
But you'll be glad you did.
It's far better than a pork chop, with potatoes.
It will make your mouth sing.
But if you must have a pork chop,
then you need to cook it like his mother.
A white haired lady stands at the window above a baker's.
We have paused at a zebra crossing.
We both look away, though I have the urge to wave,
but that would be unfair.
I am already invading.
As we move off, I look back, she is crying.
Some kids, at the front, get off.
If you can't get banana leaves then greaseproof paper will do:
at a push, but you have to grease it with oil: lots of oil.
And make sure the oven is hot.
We almost make the effort to move
but a man with a dog takes the front seat.
The backpacks relax into place, again.
It all seems so long ago, that we were stood on the brow
looking out across the valley, with the shining lake,
and nothing but ourselves.
Reading my thoughts you scroll the pictures on your phone.
Diffidently you say you were just checking time.
I like this about you.
The partial pleasing lie, like when I took two buses
to be just passing, and you said you were just about to ring.
And then we got into that nice stage
of apologising for saying I love you.
And do you mind if I say how excited you make me feel.
You need spices, lot's of spice, to make a good pork chop.
And rice and peas, you can't beat rice and peas.
Then she says, bluntly, that she grills the pork chop
to the point of crisping the fat, and that's how she likes it.
With potatoes, and sometimes a few peas,
on a plate on her lap, in front of the tele
with her slippers on, and the door locked.
I notice a shop I know.
And we hold hands.
....
IQ Test
May I take five minutes of your time.
Don't worry, I don't want your bank details and nor will I ask you fund the second home of some charity boss; with a sob story.
But I am doing a survey on reading.
I was wondering what sort of metaphor might get you to the end.
Thank you.
And if the importance of colour matters.
That's fine.
Are you male, female, other, don't care, don't want to say, or careful.
Yes I can see.
Do you prefer an 's' or a 'z' in words like patronise, or similar, and do you mind if I automatically include the opposite in defianse of the red line.
Too kind.
On a scale of 1 while 10, how much to you care about poetry: with 1 being I studied it at university, have had a few poems published in some magazines and go for drinks with a classmate who works the submission queue at Faber, and 10 being I like and care about poetry passionately.
Oh you like Yates... that's a minus 1 then.
Is the moon a pearl, a secret Zionist research facility, sometimes an inspiration, sometimes a cliche, a symbol of the feminine principle, ruined by the Americans, a chunk of the earth that was formed in some cosmic collision and now serving as a counterweight that runs the seasons, which shines purely on some scientific principle that we assume is correct but haven't bothered to check but quote often as a way of winning cheap points when discussing matters of the heavens with religious types.
I'm beginning to like you.
Oh don't worry about the jacket, it was given to me when I was homeless.
Do you ever use the word gender.
Yes these are statements and not questions.
Why should you answer in the customary manner.
This isn't a test.
Yes I have been drinking.
And smoking cigars.
I'm asking the questions here... sorry making statements.
Just one more.
Shouldn't you be watching television.
May I take five minutes of your time.
Don't worry, I don't want your bank details and nor will I ask you fund the second home of some charity boss; with a sob story.
But I am doing a survey on reading.
I was wondering what sort of metaphor might get you to the end.
Thank you.
And if the importance of colour matters.
That's fine.
Are you male, female, other, don't care, don't want to say, or careful.
Yes I can see.
Do you prefer an 's' or a 'z' in words like patronise, or similar, and do you mind if I automatically include the opposite in defianse of the red line.
Too kind.
On a scale of 1 while 10, how much to you care about poetry: with 1 being I studied it at university, have had a few poems published in some magazines and go for drinks with a classmate who works the submission queue at Faber, and 10 being I like and care about poetry passionately.
Oh you like Yates... that's a minus 1 then.
Is the moon a pearl, a secret Zionist research facility, sometimes an inspiration, sometimes a cliche, a symbol of the feminine principle, ruined by the Americans, a chunk of the earth that was formed in some cosmic collision and now serving as a counterweight that runs the seasons, which shines purely on some scientific principle that we assume is correct but haven't bothered to check but quote often as a way of winning cheap points when discussing matters of the heavens with religious types.
I'm beginning to like you.
Oh don't worry about the jacket, it was given to me when I was homeless.
Do you ever use the word gender.
Yes these are statements and not questions.
Why should you answer in the customary manner.
This isn't a test.
Yes I have been drinking.
And smoking cigars.
I'm asking the questions here... sorry making statements.
Just one more.
Shouldn't you be watching television.
.....
To Tenby
that moment at the end of bleary chivvying
summer special on my lap sweets already half eaten
in that moment when with a thunk
unclunked or clicked we were sealed into our holiday
brown vinyl burning legs below my snake belted shorts
father's cigarettes virginian sweet ashen flicked midges
caught on the wind sucked back through the window
sugaring minnie the minx or ginger and numbskulls
all the while mother asking 'are you feeling sick'
brown paper bag ready in the footwell
with the tupperworn buttered ham sandwiches
into an A-road world of trees and hedgerows
square council housing jig-saw cottages new build bungalow
portico piles down long yellow driveways
and tractors and caravans bicyclists and muttered
white knuckling grip cursing lost time
through country towns with one set of lights
church clocks and women wandered markets
wearing chemically printed polyester
i spy sky road car 'can I see it'
and groans for the unguessed three cows drinking
five miles behind
as we ingested the size of the journey
and digested olympic breakfast pancakes fizzy orange
tartrazine brightness free lollipop
the afternoon sibling squabbling
the threats to sit still and put your feet down
then songs would begin
how young my mother was
as she slipped a fox's glacier
into my fathers mouth
that moment at the end of bleary chivvying
summer special on my lap sweets already half eaten
in that moment when with a thunk
unclunked or clicked we were sealed into our holiday
brown vinyl burning legs below my snake belted shorts
father's cigarettes virginian sweet ashen flicked midges
caught on the wind sucked back through the window
sugaring minnie the minx or ginger and numbskulls
all the while mother asking 'are you feeling sick'
brown paper bag ready in the footwell
with the tupperworn buttered ham sandwiches
into an A-road world of trees and hedgerows
square council housing jig-saw cottages new build bungalow
portico piles down long yellow driveways
and tractors and caravans bicyclists and muttered
white knuckling grip cursing lost time
through country towns with one set of lights
church clocks and women wandered markets
wearing chemically printed polyester
i spy sky road car 'can I see it'
and groans for the unguessed three cows drinking
five miles behind
as we ingested the size of the journey
and digested olympic breakfast pancakes fizzy orange
tartrazine brightness free lollipop
the afternoon sibling squabbling
the threats to sit still and put your feet down
then songs would begin
how young my mother was
as she slipped a fox's glacier
into my fathers mouth
....
See you there….
